The Appearance of Death, chapter 13

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Chapter 13

The next morning I had fruit and homemade yogurt for breakfast, with whole-grain toast and an egg from a free-range chicken. Patty Goyle's Nutter Butters and Karen's Haagen Dazs were making my slacks shrink and my blouse buttons pop off. Walking a few blocks back and forth to work each day was clearly not enough to offset the calorie increases in my life. I took a tray of healthy food up to Karen.

“Here's breakfast, honey. It'll make you feel better today.”

She looked at the plate. Her lip curled. “That's an egg.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Is the yoke runny? Runny yokes make me feel kinda sick these days.”

“No, I cooked it all the way, just for you.” I handed her the fork. “Just doin' my job. But it's up to you to eat it. You don't have any donuts hidden under your mattress, do you?”

She laughed. I brought her some hot green tea and left for work. The day looked overcast and gray. We needed some rain. I took a detour and walked past Jimmy's day care. He was standing in the parking lot in a tidy line of four-year-olds with a teacher on each end. He spotted me and yelled.

“Nana!”

I waved back, but put an index finger on my lips. His teachers looked like the disciplined sort. They wore uniforms and one had a whistle slung around her neck.

Jimmy started jumping up and down. “We're going on a field trip, Nana! We're gonna see the dinosaurs!”

I gave him a thumbs up, blew him a kiss, and hurried past before I caused any more trouble. As I approached the funeral home, Patty was leaning into her the back seat of her Volkswagon Beetle, wrestling something. I heard a bit of hissing and spitting, and at last she stood up holding Emery's gray cat.

I gasped. “Oh my goodness! Mr. Plott's cat! I forgot all about him!” A wave of guilt came over me. How could I forget the lazy gray pillow that slept in the corner chair in Emery's office all day?

“I took 'im home after Mr. Plott died,” Patty said. “Been tryin' to incorporate him with my kitties, but it's just not workin'.”

I stroked the cat's head. He seemed comotose. “What's his name?”

“Mr. Plott called him Plato. He never does anything. But my Siamese could not settle down with him in the house.”

As it started to sprinkle rain, we took Plato inside and put him back on his chair. We stared at him.

Patty said, “Mr. Plott always took him home at night, and I didn't think you'd want him to live in the office.” Her voice lifted at the end like a question.

“I don't mind. Do we have a litter box?”

“I stopped at the Dollar Store and got one,” she said. “And some food. And some treats.” She placed a tuna-flavored nugget in front of Plato's nose. He did not stir.

“How old is Plato?” I asked. “He doesn't seem very lively.”

Patty shrugged. “Perfect therapy cat for dead people then, wouldn't ya say?”

I told Patty about my visit to the nail salon and about Bobbie Deckson. We went to her desk and tried a Google search, but found nothing under that name. She leaned back from her computer screen. Overhead the rain was drumming on the roof.

“Remind me why we're lookin' for her?” Patty asked.

“I want to find anybody I can in Anita Wagner's family who can tell me about her. Her husband is a nut case, and Desiree Steele --” I paused. “Well, I feel like she's hiding something. I don't trust her. Just call it my sixth sense.”

“I'll tell you what,” Patty said, “If anybody came in here and did something to that body, it had to be her.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

“Because she's the only person who would've cared!” Patty replied. “Seriously. Can you think of anybody else in Peace Valley who knew Anita, who cared about her, who's come down here asking about a memorial service? Did the woman have any friends?”

“Well --”

“Exactly. But somebody cared enough to break into a funeral home, slide that body out, and mess with that tattoo. It has to be Desiree.” She popped open a Dr. Pepper with one of her iron-clad nails. “Plus, consider this,” she added. “The niece arrives in town just after Anita's death. Don't you think that's strange? I mean, she shows up conveniently to find the body?”

I pondered all her observations, but I couldn't organize them into a sensible whole. What did it all mean?

“Patty, my brain is tired. I'm too old for this.”

She laughed. “Yer not too old. Yer just not eatin' right. Too many donuts and too much ice cream with that daughter of yers.” She shook a bright green fingernail at me. “I see her in the Piggly Wiggly. I know what she's puttin' in her cart.”

“I do the grocery shopping, Patty.”

“Uh huh,” she replied. “But she does the sugar shoppin'.” She sniffed. “An' it's not helpin' yer waistline any either!” And she gently prodded my jelly roll that rested happily over my waistband. Then she changed the subject. “Why don'tcha just ask Desiree Steele. Ask her where she's from, and how to contact her mother and gran'mother. You don't have to be nosey. Tell her the funeral home keeps family contact information like that.”

“I've left her two messages,” I answered. “I don't even know if she's still in town.”

“How long you plannin' to keep that body in cold storage?” she asked.

“Until I get explanations for why the body seems to have been tampered with. And until I have more contact with extended family. I don't feel comfortable with only that niece telling me what to do.”

“Has she told you what to do?”

“Well, no.” I hesitated. “Technically, Anita did.” I started digging in Patty's desk drawer for a Nutter Butter, but she slapped my hand.

“Mrs. Monson, no-no.”

“Patty, if it wasn't for that tattoo, I'd be willing to cremate her. But I have to know how it got there. And Desiree already told me she doesn't know anything about it. Plus, there are other little things that just don't add up. So I have to find out where the rest of the family is, and dig a little further.”

She giggled. “Diggin'. Well, that's what undertakers do.”

The rainstorm had passed, so over my lunch break I drove to Anita Wagner's house. No one was there. The doors were locked and the blinds drawn. Desiree had removed the porch cushions and left the porch light on. Anita Wagner's Toyota Camry, which had been parked beside the house, was gone too. I got out of Simone and walked around the yard. The ground where Anita's car had been parked was powdery dry. I puzzled over this. It meant that Desiree had driven the car away in the past two hours, after the rainstorm ended. And by the look of the house, she wasn't coming back soon. Maybe she'd returned home. I tried to call her again on my cell phone. Again, I was sent to her voice mail. I had a nagging sense she was avoiding my calls. It seemed more important than ever to locate Bobbie Deckson, the only person in Peace Valley who could possibly tell me more about Anita Wagner's family.

Copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen